Night of the Jaguar (33 page)

“Raccoons trip over wires?”

“Not precisely. But they have a fascination with any sort of wires, as you’d know if you’d ever had one in the house as a pet. They pull on them, and the thing goes off and they run away.”

“Very interesting. I didn’t know that. They tell me you’re an expert on tropical animals.”

“Mainly wasps, I’m afraid. But I did some general zoology when I was younger.”

“Know anything about jaguars?” Paz watched the man’s face as he said this, and was surprised to see a faint smile form.

“This is about those two Cuban businessmen, isn’t it?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. But I’d be curious to learn how you came to that conclusion.”

Cooksey gave him a long look. “I read the papers.”

“The papers didn’t mention any jaguars.”

Now a real smile. “No, sir, you have me there. Speaking of ferocious beasts, and the press, I must feed our piranhas. Would you like to watch?”

Paz made an acquiescent gesture and Cooksey led the way into
the kitchen of the main house, where he took from the refrigerator a large plastic bag containing a whole beef liver. They returned to the paths, on a route that took them through thick lily thorn and wild coffee on a mild upward slope toward the sound of rushing water. When they came into sunlight again they were on a hill of coral rock some fifteen feet above the pool, with the waterfall pouring forth below them.

“We always feed them from here. The force of the water sends the meat down to where they tend to gather. It also helps keep the other fish from unfortunate accidents.”

The red mass hit the boiling foam and disappeared. Within seconds there appeared another boiling below and the water blushed pink. Paz could make out a churning mass of gray forms near the bottom of the pond.

“Can they really strip the flesh off a cow in three minutes?” Paz asked.

“A shoal of a thousand could. We’ve only forty-two. Still, I wouldn’t want to go for a swim in there with any sort of bleeding wound. I don’t say you’d be an instant skeleton, but it would be distinctly unpleasant.” Cooksey washed out the meat bag and put it in the pocket of his shorts.

“About that jaguar, Professor…?”

“You’re not a policeman, are you?”

“No, I was. Now I’m just consulting.”

“On…?”

“Crimes involving uncanny phenomena?”

Cooksey laughed. “Oh, well, then you’ve come to the right place. Since you’re not a policeman, you can join me in a drink. I’d very much like a whiskey just now.”

They went to Cooksey’s rooms. While Cooksey attended to the drinks, Paz looked around with interest and the policeman’s casual disregard for good manners. He noted the ex–laundry room and the sleeping arrangements therein, the neat piles of female clothing and the worn backpack, a framed photograph of an insect fixed to the wall. On what he took to be Cooksey’s desk were three other framed photos, one of a pretty woman holding a child of about two, smiling into the sun,
another of an elderly couple in safari clothing, and the third was of three men in military gear, floppy hats, and battle dress, holding automatic rifles. Their faces were darkened for combat, but Paz could see that one of them was a younger Cooksey.

Cooksey didn’t comment on the poking around. He handed Paz a glass of amber liquid, no ice.

“Cheers,” he said and took a swallow. Paz did the same.

“Good stuff.”

“Talisker. It tastes of seaweed. An acquired taste, although I seem to have had no trouble acquiring it. I see you’re looking at my little gallery.”

“Yeah. That picture—you were a soldier?”

“A marine, actually. We were dropping some waffles just then.”

“Excuse me?”

“A joke. When Maggie sent us to the Falklands, Labour was somewhat muddled in their response, yielding the newspaper headline, British Left Waffles on Falklands. A famous victory, although those two men didn’t happen to survive.”

“And the others are your family?”

“Dead, too. All those people are dead but me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Quite. And now poor Jenny is gone as well.”

“You had a relationship with her. She slept here.”

“But alone, I’m afraid. We were friends, and she helped me in my work. I would very much like to see her safely back here.”

“Then you should be forthcoming with information.”

Cooksey sat down in his swivel chair and took another drink, a deep one. “I will be, Mr. Paz, although I don’t see what good it will do. This abduction and murder must have little direct connection with your, let’s call them, jaguar murders. Except through stupidity and inadvertence.”

Paz sipped lightly from his drink and waited.

“There is an Indian,” began Cooksey, and he told the tale, keeping mainly to the truth, but omitting any indication of where the Indian might be found. He refilled his glass twice during the telling. At the conclusion, he regarded Paz closely. “Is that uncanny enough for you?” he asked.

“Yes. By the way, did you tell this story to Detective Morales?”

“An expurgated version. He knows the Indian was here. I didn’t take him for someone who would entertain the, let’s say, uncanny portions.”

“Yeah, that was a good call. Why they have me. So, have you ever actually seen this Indian, ah, change himself into a gigantic jaguar.”

“No. I have only indirect evidence. The weight indicated by the footprints, as I mentioned. And his own testimony. And I wouldn’t say ‘changes himself’; he claims that the jaguar is a kind of god that takes him over and makes the transformation.”

“As a scientist, though, don’t you find that a stretch?”

“Frankly? I do indeed. Such things don’t happen. Although Jenny, who is no mean observer, says she saw him partially change whilst visiting a captive jaguar in the local zoo. It sent her into an epileptic fit. Of course, I’m sure there’s a perfectly materialist explanation for the whole affair, even though just at the moment I can’t tell you what it is.”

Paz finished his drink and stood up. “Do you think he’ll come back here?”

“I rather doubt it. Unless he’s assured by someone he trusts that the danger to his homeland has been eliminated, he will massacre the remaining leaders of the Consuela corporation and anyone else who stands in his way.”

“By magic.”

“We’ve just agreed that such things cannot be.”

“Assuming he can do it—I mean, kill those people: you don’t care?”

“These people are responsible for a good deal of slaughter, Mr. Paz. Indirectly, in the good old quasi-legal and industrial way. Forgive me if I withhold my tears.”

“You know where he’s hiding, don’t you?”

“If I did, I would probably decline to reveal that fact, in the interests of saving lives far more innocent, police officers and the like.”

Paz was about to question Cooksey further about the Indian, and also explain the Florida statutes compelling cooperation with the police, when the door burst open and Morales appeared, a triumphant expression on his face. “Jimmy, we found something. You got to see this.”

Paz followed him out, trailed by Cooksey.

There were police officers and crime-scene technicians standing around the patio table, upon which lay several objects: a heavy four-pronged forged-steel hand cultivator, whose tines had been filed to a bright pinpoint sharpness; a plaster cast of an animal foot; and a clear Baggie with two brown lumps in it.

“We found all this in a plastic grocery bag under a rock out behind the cottage where Voss and the girl lived,” said Morales. “There’s your mysterious jaguar.”

Paz looked at the things. “You’re assuming those turds are from a jaguar.”

“I sure as shit intend to find out,” said Morales boisterously. “So to speak.”

“May I?” said Cooksey. He leaned forward and picked up the Baggie, peering closely, then reaching in and breaking a small clump from one of the black masses. He held this to his nose and crumbled it. Several of the cops exchanged discreet eye rolls. “Cat, and the size suggests a large one. That cast is certainly of a jaguar right forepaw. In fact, I believe it’s part of my own collection. I didn’t know it was missing.”

“And there you have it,” said Morales, looking at Paz, unable to hide his glee.

“You think?”

“Fuck, yes!” said Morales. “It was Voss and the Indian. They had a fight in Fuentes’s office, they got kicked out, and then they did Fuentes. They used the cast to make the deep footprints. One of them stepped on it and the other one jumped up on his back. There you got your mysterious increase in weight. When we find the Indian, you’ll see—the weights will match up.” He picked up the cultivator. “They did the killings and the claw marks on the doors with that thing. And Calderón the same way.”

Paz nodded agreeably and said, “This is the special kind of hand cultivator that enables you to move with lightning speed and leap up walls.”

“Hey, it’s an Indian. Who the fuck knows what he can do? He probably spent his whole life climbing up trees. And he might’ve had other weapons, we don’t know.”

“No, we don’t,” Paz said. “I guess my work here is done. Way to go, Tito. You solved the great jaguar murder case. Almost. All you need is
one little Indian.”

“We’ll get him,” said Morales. He gave Cooksey his cop stare. “I’m sure the professor here will provide us with a usable description.”

“I’m sure,” said Paz. “Tell me, Professor, do you think he’ll be easy to catch?”

“Almost impossible to catch, in my opinion,” said Cooksey.

“And why is that?” asked Morales.

“Because he’s very good at hiding. He could be behind that hedge right now or in the tops of any of our big trees.” Cooksey pointed and everyone looked, and looked nervous doing so. “Now, if you’re finished with me, I do still have my own work to do.”

He started to go but Paz held up a hand. “Just one more thing, sir. Does this guy have a name?”

“Yes. His name is Moie,” said Cooksey.

Two minutes later, Paz and a protesting Morales were in the latter’s unmarked, heading north on Ingraham at an unsafe speed. Paz was cursing in Spanish, mainly at the absent Cooksey, because an instant after hearing the name, he had loosed a barrage of ferocious questions and quickly determined that the scientist had stashed his Indian in the great banyan that shaded his daughter’s school; and cursed also himself, for being too slow to understand that Amelia did not have an
imaginary
little friend up in the tree at all.

It was a short drive. When they stopped on the shoulder next to the school lawn, where the upper boughs of the monster overhung the road, Paz popped his door open and was about to get out when Morales grabbed his arm.

“This is mine, Jimmy,” he said.

Paz struggled in his grip. “No, I’m going up, man,” he said.

“I could cuff you to the wheel, if you want,” said the other. “I’m serious, Jimmy. This fucker is a serial killer and you’re unarmed, one, and two, a civilian. I should call for backup, except I don’t want to make an ass of myself in front of the whole SWAT team if this is another stupid Paz trick.”

“If you don’t think he’s there, why don’t you let me take an unoffi
cial look?”

“Don’t be a jerk, Paz. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t break your neck.”

Both men left the car and approached the tree. Morales stared upward into its mass and let out a low whistle, as for the first time he realized just how big the thing was.

“You’re sure, now?” asked Paz. “I’m a lot closer to our African monkey roots than you are.”

“Jimmy, if your daughter can climb this fucker, so can I.”

“If you’re not down in three days, or if I see chunks of mangled flesh wrapped in a cheap suit, I’m going to call for help, okay?”

Morales did not dignify this last with a response but vanished into the shadowed base of the fig. Paz leaned against the police car and lit a short, thick, black cigar. Occasional cracking sounds reached him from the tree, and frequent curses. The cigar was nearly done before he heard slithering sounds from the tree and a worn and filthy cloth suitcase plopped on the ground amid a small scatter of leaf, twig, and fruit. Shortly thereafter, Morales appeared, amid a larger scatter of the same. He was red-faced, sweating, scratched, disheveled, with his shirttails hanging out and his slacks stained with sap.

“What’s in the case?” asked Paz. “Dried businessman jerky?”

“No, a black suit, a pair of shoes, a hat, and a hammock. And I found these.” He removed a large evidence envelope from his back pocket. In it were three small empty Fritos bags.

“They might have prints.”

“I’m sure,” said Paz. “Among them mine and my daughter’s. But no Indian.”

“No, but he might come back. This is his base. I think we should stake it out.”

“Well, you’re the cop,” said Paz. “And Tito? I’m real glad he wasn’t there this time. Don’t try to take this guy yourself.”

“He’s just an Indian, Jimmy.”

“So was Geronimo. But he’s not just an Indian. And our professor is not just a professor.”

“Meaning what?”

“A little too cool. The guy was some kind of commando. He’s spent a lot of time in Colombia, too. I were you, I’d find out who he’s been calling recently.”

Morales gave him a look to see if he was kidding, saw that he wasn’t, shrugged, and went to his car to call in the latest news to his superiors.

First there was the taste in her mouth, pennies and puke, and then the pain, as if a thick spike covered with grit had been driven across her skull just behind her eyes. A hot spike. She tried to open her mouth to spit and found she could not. It had been taped, and when she tried to take the tape off, she learned that her arms and legs were similarly bound. It took some time for her eyes to register what they were seeing, for the light was dim and the shapes baffling: pipes, oblong objects, wires, hoses, a dim skylight above this tangle. A smell, too, familiar but hard to place—chemical, heavy, a cold sort of smell, and suddenly everything clicked into the gestalt: she was in the repair bay of a garage, looking up at the ceiling. She was taped to one of the hoists, her arms and legs tied to the
X
-shaped steel beams of the lifting platform, at about table height above the floor. And she was naked.